Tyler
The smoke told the villagers at Eldan's Hearth what the passing soldiers had done before Tyler ever mustered the will to move. They’d taken Hal to the healer to mend a wound in his side, and the rest gathered around the scorched remains of what used to be Tyler's home.
Tyler stood amidst the ruins, still and silent as the villagers moved around him. They cleared debris and salvaged what little remained, each movement careful, watching Tyler.
Marn the blacksmith approached Tyler cautiously, his large hands stained with soot. "Tyler," he began, his voice low and steady, "we’re here for you. We'll help rebuild, bit by bit, but you are welcome to stay with us, in the meantime."
Tyler's eyes flickered towards Marn. "Thanks, Marn," he muttered, the words barely a whisper. “I’ll stay here.” The villagers exchanged glances, nodding in sadly. What could be said after such a deed?
As the sun dipped lower, it painted the sky in shades of orange and purple, just as it had the day before. Tyler failed to find any joy or beauty within it. Greta slowly approached Tyler with a bowl of stew, taking care her cane found a mark within the rubble. "Eat something, dear," she urged softly.
Tyler accepted the bowl, his hands trembling slightly. "Has anyone seen Hal?" he asked abruptly, his voice flat. The villagers exchanged uneasy looks.
Greta sighed, a tear dripping down her cheek. "He... he didn't make it to him in time, Tyler. I'm so sorry.”
A deeper silence than before swallowed the group, and for a moment there was only quiet and stillness. Tyler simply stared at the bowl of soup.
As the evening shadows lengthened, the villagers gradually departed, leaving Tyler alone in the ruins of his home. The bowl of stew lay untouched beside him. Several had urged him to accompany them, but he was not reasonable, and soon all efforts ended. Eventually the night took him, and he fell asleep next to ash and stone. The night would be cold, but Tyler welcomed it and hoped for death.
--
The pale light of dawn grew upon the remains of what once was a home, where Tyler lay amidst the ruins. The night had been long and merciless, and the stars had offered no comfort. His bones ached, his fingers had no feeling, and hunger gnawed at him. In a way, it helped pierce the grief and command movement, for he otherwise felt as if there was no reason to ever move again.
Tyler slowly sat up. His eyes now mirrored the cold gray of the morning sky, the dismal clouds hiding the sunrise. He looked around, the blackened timbers and charred remnants of his home sticking about like jagged taunts, reminding him he was hiding in a well when his mom and Hal were killed. He blinked hard. It had to be a dream. He had to wake up -- he’d be in bed, with a fever, his mother dolling over him. But the ruins stayed, and his mother did not appear.
A bitter laugh escaped his chapped lips, and echoed off the remaining walls, something it never did when the walls held all he and his mother had knit. As the laugh died in his throat, Tyler felt the tears flowing down his face. He thought of the villagers' sympathetic glances, their well-meaning words. They still had homes to return to, families to embrace.
“WHY?” He yelled, suddenly on his feet, delivering a swift kick to a black crumbling board. Why should his mother die, and the soldiers live? How could such suffering even exist? The empty home offered no answers, only the scratchy movement of leaves in the wind. The world around him continued on as if nothing was amiss.
He fell to his knees, and for a while longer wished again that death would take him. But presently the sun tore through the clouds as if in answer, its rays removing the chill and a golden brilliance shining through the house. Tyler could only weep in response, the burning and broken home seared into his mind in another light.
A glint of gold this time shone, however, and neither the villagers nor fire had seen it. Tyler forced his limbs to move him to it, and then grabbed the glittering item.
It was his dad’s Crestguard emblem.
Tyler's fingers closed around the Crestguard emblem, and all the more it seemed so unfair. He recalled dimly the days in March when his mother sat on her bed, wracked in silent sobs. He had not known it so clearly then, but it was this that she mourned, to have a loved one taken before their time. Now it was his pain to understand also.
He gripped the emblem harder. Haelstra had taken his father. In that, they had taken his childhood too. As if that had been a wound too small, his mother died in the very grass his dad meant to make safe. And his house. To have already stabbed so deeply into his life, and in the end erase whatever semblance of it he had.
Red now ran between his fingers that gripped the emblem. Stopping there would have been the utmost grief he could imagine, and yet they imagined further. Wounding Hal, enough for him to cast out hope for some shred of life untorn, only for that too to be ripped away.
The cut of metal into his palm brought him back to more wakeful thinking, and a small ember began to burn in him. What did he have left here? Friends, some. Those that cared, not a few. Yet what was that now to him but water poured into a shattered cup?
There would come war of an attack like this. He would join it.
His gaze shifted to the bowl Greta had left, now crawling with bugs attracted by the neglected stew. He needed sustenance. Bringing the bowl to his lips, he drank deeply despite the crawling sensation and taste. When it threatened to come up, he snarled and gripped the emblem tighter. He set the bowl down with measured care.
Emblem in one hand, Tyler turned his attention to a wood chopping ax, stuck in a stump near the house. He seized the ax, praying he might encounter a retreating patrol. Then he headed towards the nearest village, where he would see if Marn could help him get to Ildris.
The road was uneventful, and Tyler's steps led him through the village towards Marn's forge. The crisp morning air carried the sounds of Eldan's Hearth waking, and as he neared the forge, the clanging of metal rang out, a familiar and comforting sound.
The blacksmith's shop stood near the heart of the village, as their size put a focus on the utility of a thing, rather than luxury. Tyler's eyes briefly flitted over the runes etched into the walls and tools around the forge – simple, functional symbols that harnessed life force for mundane tasks. A rune on a barrel could heat water, another on a lantern provided steady light, and yet another on the anvil seemed to lend extra force to Marn's hammer blows. If he focused, he could just make out the tiny strands of wispy energy flowing from Marn into the lantern, and the hammer had a tinge of clouds around it as he swung. Marn was no Runecaster, but Retracing could be learned by most, with enough effort.
Marn looked up as Tyler approached, and he stopped swinging. "Tyler," he began, his voice hesitant.
"I need to go to Ildris," Tyler cut in abruptly, his grip tightening on the Crestguard emblem in his hand.
Marn paused, eyeing the emblem and the determination in Tyler's eyes. He sighed deeply, setting down his hammer. "Ildris is a long way, and the road's not easy. Especially not for a young man fueled by anger and grief."
Tyler's jaw clenched, but he remained silent.
"There are other ways to find peace, Tyler. Ways that don't lead down the path of war," Marn continued gently, wiping his hands on his apron.
Tyler looked away, his eyes scanning the runes again. "Are you going to stop me?" His voice was flat, devoid of the respect Marn knew from Tyler before. His eyes narrowed, considering what to say.
Marn's expression softened after a moment though, and he shook his head. "No, I won't stop you. But if you're set on this path, I'll help you. You'll need more than just anger to survive out there." And he raised an eyebrow at the ax. “And certainly more than that.”
Tyler nodded, and just the hint of a grin stole over his face at Marn's appraisal of the ax. It was gone after stealing what little time Tyler gave it, the emotion feeling like a slight against his experience.
"Come inside," Marn said, taking his gloves off. "We'll get you what you need for the journey. And I'll teach you a few things that might just keep you alive."
In the light of Marn's forge, the blacksmith paused before a worn wooden shelf, his large, calloused hands hovering over a collection of items. Marn muttered to himself, placing a hand on a weapon as if feeling it for fit. But then he grunted, and sighed again rather long.
Marn's fingers settled on a sword, its sheath plain and unassuming. He took it down casually, holding it out to Tyler. "This," Marn began in a low, rumbling voice, "looks exactly like a standard order blade. I’d have given you something better, but I realized you’d not be allowed to keep it, unless you could show some skill,” he explained. Then he glanced at Tyler. “And you haven’t been holding out on me with that, eh?”
Tyler met his gaze and shook his head slowly, taking the blade. Marn sighed and felt a pang of sadness. There was a time Tyler might have spun yarn in words, like his mother in knitting, rapidly explaining his secret training with some outlandish figure.
Tyler’s fingers closing around the sword's hilt. The sensation was foreign, the weight and balance unfamiliar in his hands. He looked down at the weapon, feeling its physical presence and wondering if his dad had felt like this once.
Marn pointed to a small mark on the hilt, a tiny anvil intertwined with a flame. "You see this here? It looks like a standard blade, but it isn’t, quite. This sword is forged from a stronger alloy, made to last,” he stated resolutely.
Tyler held the sword awkwardly, trying to mimic the way he had seen soldiers hold their weapons. The mark on the hilt was barely visible, but knowing it was there made the sword feel unique, personal. And it would help him sort things, should someone try to swap them.
Marn watched him for a moment, then gently corrected Tyler's grip. "Hold it like this," he instructed. "Feel its weight, let it become an extension of your arm."
Tyler adjusted his grip, feeling the change in balance. The sword still felt strange in his hands, but a bit more natural now.
Marn continued, "A sword is a tool, Tyler. A means to an end. Do you read the Textuals?" He paused, his eyes meeting Tyler's. "What does it say of a sword?”
Tyler lowered the sword. “Don’t think that applies now.”
Marn’s nostrils flared, and suddenly the sword flew from Tyler’s hands with a bang, a hammer produced out of nowhere blasting it from his grip. He snatched the front of Tyler’s shirt and hoisted him into a wooden pillar within the forge. Tyler’s eyes bulged and his heart suddenly fired into panicked action. He briefly grabbed at the blacksmith’s massive wrists, and then attempted to kick off of his body, but both actions met muscle as hard as the anvil Marn beat. Was he about to die?
Marn held him there for a second, his gaze crushing. “A sword,” he began slowly and with a sound like cracking gravel, “Is best used within a sheath. Now what,” he asked, gently setting Tyler down, “Does that mean?”
Tyler sucked in a few deep breaths, and attempted to still his trembling. “You don’t fight unless you have to,” he answered finally.
“And?” Marn prompted. Tyler looked at him, confused.
“And when you do, it is for a purpose, and controlled,” Marn continued. “You wield a sword, Tyler. It doesn’t wield you, and your emotions do not count as you either.”
Tyler nodded, gulping another few breaths down. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, a bit of shame coming over him as he recalled also how disrespectful he’d been when he first arrived.
Marn smiled, and Tyler felt the last vestiges of panic fade. “Thank you Tyler. I forgive you.”
Marn turned to gather a few items from a nearby workbench. He returned with a sturdy pack, the fabric worn but strong, filled with provisions and basic supplies. "You'll need these for the road," Marn said, handing the pack over. The weight of it was substantial, filled with enough to sustain a journey, but not so much as to be a burden. Tyler nodded, adjusting the pack on his shoulder.
"And Tyler," Marn said, his eyes locking onto Tyler's and making his heart jump once more. "Find a friend out there. Someone you can trust." His voice brokered no argument, though Tyler had decided he would agree almost no matter what was said next. "And when you do, sacrifice for them first, without promise for return."
Before he could think or ask about that, Marn's wife Elara entered the forge. Tyler suddenly had a revelation as to why they worked; he’d always wondered how the snarkiest, most energetic woman fell for the seemingly boring Marn, though of course he’d never say that to Marn. But that was before he’d experienced the power and unyielding strength that pinned him to the wall and forced recitation from him.
“Tyler!” Elara exclaimed with a vibrant energy that filled the forge. Her presence was larger even than Marn’s forearms, a bright and lively step. Smiling at him, her eyes sparkled and she gave a contented sigh. “It is good to see you around.”
Tyler couldn't help but be drawn in by her energy. Really, she reminded him of his mom. Even if for a moment, he could pretend he hadn’t lost that.
Elara approached Tyler, bringing out a small, neatly folded piece of knitting. “This," she began, her voice soft, "was crafted by your mother's hands." She extended it towards him. “I thought it appropriate you have one as…well.” She shook her head.
Tyler took the knitting, his hands trembling slightly as he touched the fabric. The intricate pattern spoke of his mother's skill and the love woven into each stitch. A wave of nostalgia washed over him, the familiar feeling of home in the fabric. Tears welled in his eyes.
"Thank you," Tyler whispered. He gently folded the knitting, placing it in a deeper pocket within his garb.
Elara stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Tyler in a comforting embrace. Marn joined, his strong arms encircling them both.
Soon after, Tyler left the forge, a pack and sword heavier. Ildris, the city of sounds, was next.
Next
Next Tylen
I listened to the recording on this one. Nicely done, I enjoyed it. You can do voices. Still waiting to hear Gollum and Miss Piggy though.
Poor Hal :(
One thing I noticed is that the first several paragraphs you say Tyler a lot. I think it could change to he/him/his in many places. Not that I'm an expert by any means, but one thing I've found helpful is to read my work aloud. I catch a bunch of stuff that sounds awkward when I am stumbling over the words.
My favorite lines:
A deeper silence than before swallowed the group, and for a moment there was only quiet and stillness.
His eyes now mirrored the cold gray of the morning sky, the dismal clouds hiding the sunrise. He looked around, the blackened timbers and charred remnants of his home sticking about like jagged taunts,
The empty home offered no answers, only the scratchy movement of leaves in the wind.
Friends, some. Those that cared, not a few. Yet what was that now to him but water poured into a shattered cup?